


This Is the Way the World Ends

by Starlithorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mildly disturbing nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What goes up must crash down. That's what they say, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is the Way the World Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at Moriarty. Thoughts? Opinions?  
> Okay.

His heart thrummed, pumped, carried on and on inside his chest. He'd never felt an adrenalin rush like that, and it was fucking beautiful.

Watching Carl drown was like art. _Better_ , even.

It only improved from there.

By twenty-five, he was a spider no one ever saw.

By thirty, he was the most feared man in England. The one that no one ever saw. Out of the infinitely many flies dancing in his web, only a very small handful even knew his first name. One died in Kirachi (no less than she deserved, but also no more), and one was his right-hand man. And Moran was barely a man. He was almost inhuman, feral and feline and _his_.

"Darling, you belong to me."

Words like accusations falling over a prone body, spilling into the slices in his skin. So lovely, so perfect. There was no ignoring the beauty of the colour red.

He never got his hands dirty. There was no need to, really. There were hundreds, _thousands_ , clamoring to do as he said, to fulfill every little whim. But sometimes, as a simple indulgence to himself, he allowed his hands to be stained red. More often than that, though, he allowed himself to be caught in the blooming red nebula of a sniper's bullet through flesh he was tired of.

The sniper was what took him downhill, while also helping him to ascend at lightning speed.

Professionally, Moran was a boon. Personally, he was the bane of the consultant's existence.

He'd never call it love. No, he wasn't capable of that.

Close, though.

Then came the other consultant. The one that was looking a bit too closely. Oh, he was lovely as well, all pale skin and cheekbones and distractions. That wasn't attraction so much as a need to destroy something beautiful. He so preferred destruction to perfection, and the detective's broken body at his feet would be almost as good as the sniper's willing body on his bed.

Almost.

It had been lovely, coming face to face with the other genius, the distraction, the soon-to-be victim. That pumping heart by his side, the one nearly shattered in Afghanistan, the one that tried to bank the fire that was his friend: he was going to be collateral damage, and it was going to be perfect.

"I will burn the _heart_  out of you."

Watch them dance, and smile jaggedly.

On and on the dancing puppets go, gaining popularity and notoriety and such a high pedestal to fall from. What goes up must crash down. What goes up must break its bones, and veins, and heart. That's what they say, right?

The conflagration begins to devour the detective and his heart, while the criminal finds himself closer to Moran than ever. It hurts, and he did not expect this. There's only one way for this game to end, and it might actually be the most terrible thing in the world. 

He is a close second.

The fire burns hotter, but never brighter. The smoke masks the light, confuses those caught in its grasp, chokes the truth. Perfect. He owes the pretty detective a fall, and a fall he shall get.

It's a pity he won't see that broken, bloodied body.

That night is the last night. He comes closer to kindness, closer to _love_  than ever before, and he has to bite back a sob at the way the lamplight brushes across Moran's skin, his for the taking.

Soon, never again.

That rooftop, the scene of the crime. Last thing he'll ever see. He taunts himself with "Staying Alive" and he wants to throw his phone off the roof, watch it burst in black shards, but he won't. He must stay composed. He will die with manic dignity. It's the only way to ensure the solution to this final problem.

The detective, so sure, swanning in circles around the dead man walking.

"Bless you."

Terrible last words for a sinner, perfect for a saint. In his own head, he is King of the Sinners, Keeper of the Lost Souls. His last words, blasphemy.

And then, red stars exploding outward from the back of the head, blood pooling, his own body broken and defeated. It was the only way. There was never going to be a Happily Ever After, only going out with a whimper and a bang.


End file.
